C as in comfort
by Heidinanookie
Summary: "C" as in "comfort", or "coat". Or "Castiel". This is a little story about all three. Spoilers for Season 7. Please R&R!


**"C" as in "comfort"**

Dean can't sleep.

He is haunted by images of what happened to Cas, how his body had been literally walked into the water like a sacrificial lamb, submerged, drowning, coming apart, and they had been powerless to stop it. Only, when he closes his eyes and sees the moment replay again and again in his mind's eye, the water is red with blood instead of momentarily black with Leviathan goo…

Besides, his pillow is lumpy and there is an uneven floor board sticking into his back where he's lying on the carpet.

He turns over again, grunting and trying to find a more comfortable position. It's no use. Eventually he reaches for his duffle bag, dragging it closer and rooting through it for something, anything that could make his bed a little more comfortable. He pulls something solid and heavy from it: the rolled-up coat he fished from the water. It is still slightly damp, but the worn fabric is comfortingly familiar under his hands. He replaces his thin pillow with it, trying to improve his flimsy pallet.

He's asleep the instant he lays back down and if there are dreams, they are of nothing but light and warmth.

He doesn't know if it's just his imagination but somehow, he feels better in the morning than he felt in days. On a whim, he decides to sleep with his head on his new makeshift pillow every night from now on, and if Sam sometimes looks at him funnily, that's okay. They are both grown-ups and can do whatever they like.

If Dean has nightmares during the next few weeks, he doesn't remember them. He doesn't question why that might be as if being too inquisitive could jinx his luck. It doesn't matter, thought, because Sam has enough nightmares to last the both of them.

One night, after Dean has been woken by yet another of them, he has this crazy idea, still half asleep: He offers Sam his coat-pillow, like a sibling sharing his favourite teddy bear in the hopes that it might bring somebody other than him the same kind of comfort. His brother is too shaken to protest, wiping furiously at the tears on his exhausted face and takes the offering from Dean more or less out of habit because Sam never refuses his big brother.

But Sam sleeps undisturbed until the morning and wakes up feeling worlds better. None of them says so, but there's the lingering feeling that a rolled-up piece of clothing could somehow, mysteriously, magically have something to do with it. Though Dean is slightly jealous, for which he feels bad but he can't help it, he allows Sam to share in the use of his pillow for another night. When Sam doesn't have a bad dream then, either, but has to endure Dean tossing and turning restlessly, waking cranky and bleary-eyed in the morning – that's when they decide to take turns each night.

It's an innocent enough habit and they know it might be childish, but they stick to it for the next months and over time they discover, beside the receding nightmares, that though they still miss their friend, it doesn't hurt quite as much after a night with the coat. Maybe there is still some of his Grace left in the blood stains clinging to the fabric and that's what's soothing them, but really, it's impossible to explain and they don't try to rationalize it, knowing better than to push their luck through over-analysing.

Then, one night, Dean is shaken awake by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He grunts, clutching his magic pillow a little closer and tries to turn over, grumbling something that sounds vaguely like "'s my turn.". "Dean." There's a voice in the dark, deep and gravely, and Dean thinks it must be a remnant of the dream he just had. He burrows his face deeper between his arms.

"_Dean_." There it is again, definitely real this time, as is the hand squeezing his arm. His eyes snap open and for a moment he is sure his heart stops. There is an unmistakably familiar silhouette next to his bed.

He gasps in a breath as his heart starts up again. "Cas!" he rasps. There is shock in his voice, and sleep, and wonder.

Cas just looks down on him, face impassive. "I would appreciate it if I could have my coat back." His voice is still the same dry, deep rumble. He's wearing the same damn tie he always wore. His eyes glint and it is too dark to see their colour but Dean is sure they still are Jimmy Novak's vibrant shade of blue. Nothing about the apparition before Dean suggests he has been gone from the face of the earth for four months.

Dean shifts abruptly to sit on the edge of the bed, not caring at all that he is only wearing boxers, and Cas steps back a little to give him room to move, waiting patiently. Dean rubs his eyes like a child and it's ridiculous, he knows, but he can't help it. When he blinks, Cas is still there. He is _there_. A thousand questions are crowding the back of Dean's mind. Where have you been? Am I dreaming? Is this really you? Are you really here? What _happened_? But none of them makes it to his mouth. He just stares blankly.

Eventually, Cas begins to shift under his gaze, starting to look vaguely uncomfortable underneath the expressionless mask. He seems so real, the tilt of his head, the swish of his slacks,… There is body head radiating off him.

Dean can't be sure, though. Experience has taught him that yes, sometimes the dead do come back, and yes, in even rarer cases they are people you'd actually want back. Now he knows how Bobby and Sam must have felt upon his return from Hell, the joy warring with the survival instinct. So Dean does the only thing he can think of right now, while tiredness and disbelieve are jamming his brain like grains of sand in a clockwork.

"Sam? Sam, wake up!" For a moment nothing moves and Dean has the horrible thought that Sam has been put to sleep to keep him out of the way, but then his brother stirs, stretching, groaning. His brow furrows when he becomes aware that he has been woken.

"Dean? What is it?" he mumbles. He keeps his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Cas continues to just stand there and Dean's eyes flicker back and forth between him and his brother. "Cas is here. He wants to take his coat back. Think we should let him?"

"What?" Sam continuers to rub at the corners of his eyes, sounding annoyed and sleepy. "Sam." There is something urgent and serious in Dean's voice that gets Sam to finally roll over and open his eyes. They widen instantly and he does a kind of double take that's almost comical. "Hello Sam," says Cas. "What… How… This…" Sam splutters. "Okay," Dean observes dryly, "That answers the question whether or not I'm hallucinating." He catches Sam's eye. Understanding passes between them: This might not be real. It's too good to be true.

So Dean inches his hand under his pillow, reaching for the colt and Sam does the same, hoping to catch a hold of his demon-knife before the creature between them catches on. Cas, of course, notices. "I understand what you are trying to do but I assure you that I am no demon," he says calmly.

Dean gives up his attempt to be stealthy and points the colt at him. "Yeah? And we are supposed to believe you just like that?" Cas tilts his head in concession of the point. "Shoot me, then. If I am who I am supposed to be it won't harm me." He takes a step forward, but it's not a threat. It's an invitation. Dean can't bring himself to fire.

A gentle smile begins to tuck at the corners of Castiel's mouth, even though it seems forced from him against his will. His expression freezes when the point of the demon knife suddenly appears, jutting from his chest. Sam is standing behind his shoulder, his face twisted into something ugly, satisfaction and regret mixed into one.

Dean is frozen in a horrible feeling of deja-vu. Cas' head sinks forward as he looks down, then up again. "Is this proof enough?" He reaches behind his back, warm, steady, _solid_ fingers closing over Sam's hand on the knife handle, and pulls the weapon from his body.

There is no blood. The vessel is healed. Even the tear in the shirt mends immediately, there one moment, gone the next. Dean is almost convinced, but then, he might be biased. He suppresses the need to believe in this miracle just yet. "Silver," he states curtly and it's painful to see Cas hold out his arm, rolling up his sleeve and meekly enduring the bite of as silver blade from Sam's duffle bag. The gash closes instantly, seemingly without causing Cas undue discomfort.

Sam draws in an audible breath, looking apologetic. "Don't," says Cas. "I completely understand your need to be sure. Do not feel guilty for trying to preserve you life."

Sam blinks several times, then looks over at Dean. "I think it's him." Dean nods. Then, surprising them all, he proceeds to get up off the bed and wrap Castiel in the first real hug he ever gave him, regretting not doing this more often in the past: Showing Cas that he cared, that he was there for him. After all, an overwhelming feeling of not-belonging had been what led Cas to think he was alone in his quest in the first place. Dean wasn't going to make the same mistake twice and let him believe that he couldn't count on them.

"It's good to have you back, man." Castiel is stiff in his embrace at first as if he can't believe what's happening to him. Then his arms come up and he tentatively hugs Dean back.

A moment later, Dean draws back, shaking Cas' shoulder. His face is stern and his voice fierce and filling with slow-burning anger. "Don't ever do that again, trying to save the world all on your own, you dumbass." Cas looks at his shoes, unable to meet his eyes.

"Come on, Dean. Give him a break!" Sam takes Cas from Dean's hands and embraces him, too. "I know how you felt, Cas. I've been there too, remember? You should have come to talk about this earlier. We would have understood."

The angel responds by squeezing Sam a little tighter. He can't believe that the brothers seem to forgive him just like that and it is so good to feel their easy camaraderie, accepting him right back. He doesn't deserve this, he knows. He doesn't deserve any of it, not this new life, not this kind of friendship, not these friends or their forgiveness, their affection…

It had been hard to force himself to come to Sam and Dean and make his presence known when he had been afraid of their disgust and resentment. He hadn't thought that they would want to see him and they would have had every right to feel that way, especially after what he had done to Sam. But somehow, miraculously, Sam was fine and Dean didn't hate him. Asking for his coat had seemed like as neat, impersonal line at the time, a good way to apprise them of his return because they simply deserved to know, and leave things at a healthy distance at the same time. Now he felt stupid because Dean had been bloody _sleeping_ with his bloody coat under his head and that had to mean _something_.

"I am sorry," Cas says. They've heard it before, of course, but he needs them to know anyway. Suddenly there is pressure forming in his chest and he feels like he is going to explode yet again. He almost panics until he realizes that it is only a wave of tears threatening to break out of him and wet Sam's reassuring shoulder.

"I am sorry," he repeats, feeling unfamiliar emotions choking his voice. Sam pats his back before he releases him. "I know. Don't worry about it, Cas. Everything turned out okay in the end, didn't it? Well, apart from the Leviathans, obviously," he adds wryly.

"Tell us what happened," Dean demands. "We thought you were dead for good this time." There's a minute quiver in his voice but he hides it well.

The brothers sit him down on the edge of one of the beds and somebody switches on a light. The old coat lies bundled up and forgotten on the mattress. Cas begins to tell his story. It isn't much, but they listen to him and he feels even worse for ever doubting they wouldn't. He aught to have known they would always listen. They are family, after all.

~ end ~

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